True Colors
by Rellim78
Summary: Friendship is all well and good but when it comes down to them or you, well, you know which one they're going to choose. Or at least that's the lesson Illya learned years ago.


**A/N: I've been writing stories from various fandoms in my head forever, but this is only the third I've actually written down and the very first I've shared with any other living soul. Enjoy!**

Illya Kuryakin tried to keep the outward appearance of calm while he hurriedly gathered his books and papers. He'd gotten lost in his studies and it was now dangerously close to the time a certain group of people would be expected in the Cambridge University Library. They had taken a deep dislike to the young Soviet. In fact, they had forbidden him from the library all together, but Illya could only be pushed so far. Okay, he admitted to himself, scurrying from the library, a place he a perfect right and, in fact, need to be, was pretty far to allow oneself to be pushed, but reasoned some battles were not worth fighting.

He kept his head down as he walked in an attempt to avoid Walker and his gang coming the other way. He didn't notice Jimmy Fisher until he nearly ran into him.

"Hey Eel, how's it going?"

Illya gave a small smile to the other student. In spite of his persistence in using that annoying nickname, Jimmy was probably the only person in England Illya considered a friend.

Damn, that was depressing now that he thought about it. Jimmy was another physics student studying Quantum Mechanics, like himself. Also like Illya he was skinny and unpopular, though for a slightly different reason. Jimmy Spots, as he was frequently called, had the misfortune to have a case of acne that persisted into his mid-twenties and the flaming red hair about which the English have their strange prejudice. The two outcasts were something like kindred spirits, Illya thought. He was glad to share his notes and help Jimmy when he (frequently) got stuck on a concept. The simple human contact was worth it.

"Hey, you eaten yet? I was going to grab dinner at Sullivan's..." Jimmy trained off in his characteristic way of not quite asking a question.

"That sounds wonderful," said Illya enthusiastically. It had been quite some time since lunch and he was famished.

Illya and Jimmy fell into step as they walked down the street to the café. They were just taking the usual alley short cut when a large figure stepped out from against the wall to stand of them.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Red Eel."

"What do you want Walker," asked Illya as evenly as he could. Behind them and to both sides he could sense Walker's friends stepping out of the shadows.

"I already told you what I want, and I get grumpy if I don't get what I want, don't I? I told you the library was off limits to stinking commies." Walker strode forward and all around them, Illya could feel the ring of people tighten. "So how come every time I go down to the stacks, all I can smell is Ruskie?"

"Actually, I'm Ukrainian," Illya responded. Unable to help himself he continued. "It's a common mistake of ignorant people."

At the feral look in Walker's eye, Illya instinctively took a step closer to Jimmy. He was surprised to find nothing but empty air at his shoulder. Jimmy was now standing outside the circle of bodies, stumbling, backing away further.

"I'm sorry Eel, I'm sorry…" the skinny redhead stammered. "They said they'd leave me alone if I led you to them. I can't… I can't… I'm sorry…" With that Jimmy turned and ran back up the alley.

Illya felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. He felt like his stomach had turned to ice. He knew his face showed all his shock and betrayal. That's when the laughter and jeering started.

"Look at him, I think he's going to cry!"

"You didn't think an Englishman could really be friends with a dirty Red, did you?"

They closed further and further in. Walker threw the first punch.

In the end, the beating hadn't been that bad. A bunch of spoiled rich boys without the skills or the stomach to cause any real damage. By far the most painful punch to the gut had come from Jimmy.

TMFU TMFU TMFU

Special Agent Illya Kuryakin took another canapé off a passing tray and, not for the first time that night, wished he were someplace else – preferably blowing that someplace up. At least when you were getting shot at you knew who your enemies were.

Here, however, was just a room full of CIA, FBI and UNCLE agents pretending to be friendly to each other. It was the annual conference for the investigative agencies based in New York. At least, those with official bases in the city. Although, Illya mused, the KGB likely had several operatives here too. He'd mostly been able to skip these functions in Berlin, but his new boss, Waverly, had insisted that number 2, section 2 had to be here.

Illya's gaze landed on his new partner, Napoleon Solo, and for lack of anything better to do, wandered over in that direction. Solo was annoyingly in his element at these kind of things. He had this effortless Hollywood harm that certainly worked on western ladies, but that Illya still found somewhat frivolous. Still, they made a good team in the field, which was what counted.

The few missions they'd completed together had gone mostly well. And the not so well parts had been dealt with. Privately, Illya thought that was where he and Solo worked the best. They seemed to have a knack for improvising new plans. For the first time in a long time Illya felt he was on the same "wavelength" as someone else.

The words "I'm sorry, Eel, I'm sorry" floated through his mind.

His mood suddenly darker, Illya altered course, veering towards the edge of the room. Before he got there, he felt a rough hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he was face to reddened face with a CIA man he'd seen Solo laughing with earlier.

"So you're the commie, huh?" The man had clearly been enjoying the open bar. "Why do they even let your kind in here?"

"Illya Kuryakin," Illya held his hand out in greeting "and UNCLE is an international organization. Every chartered nation has an interest in preventing crime."

The CIA man looked at the offered hand as if it held something unspeakable and jabbed a single finger into Illya's chest. "You and me. Outside. Ten minutes. Then we'll see if you're red or if you're yellow."

With a deliberate clip of the shoulder, the man stalked past Illya, who was trying to control his emotions. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. Some things never change. For all the high minded talk of international cooperation, there would always be people like that.

Illya knew he shouldn't go out there. He should find Waverly and tell him about the incident. But no, that would just make things worse in the long run. Have it out now. Gathering your books and scurrying out the library just postpones the inevitable.

He glanced in Solo's direction. His fellow agent was facing the other way, likely hadn't seen what happened. A thought popped into Illya's head and was just as quickly abandoned. Whoever this CIA guy was, he was at least friendly with Solo. No, better not to ask for help from that quarter. Besides, what trouble could one drunk be?

"I see you came alone," said the large CIA man in a no-longer-sluring voice.

TMFU TMFU

"I see you didn't," Illya said eyeing his opponent and his even larger companion. "Look, we don't have to do this. We're not enemies here."

"You're right. We don't have to do this. You be on the next plane back to Leningrad and we'll call it even."

"I'm afraid I won't be doing that."

"Then we're done talking."

The two CIA men closed in on Illya, cracking their knuckles and loosening their shoulders. Illya dropped into his ready stance, joints loose and body balanced to move in any direction required.

The first agent lunged, but Illya recognized the feign and was ready to block the first real blow that came from the other man. The two tried to flank him, but Illya was quicker, maneuvering to prevent either CIA agent from getting behind him. His opponents were bigger and stronger, but with his agility, Illya made it a fair fight.

That is, until the third man stepped from the shadow of the dumpster and clubbed Illya from behind. The smaller man was knocked unconscious instantly and crumpled to the concrete at the feet of his three opponents.

TMFU TMFU

The headache was the first thing Illya noticed as he woke, sharp lines of pain radiating from the back of his skull. When he tried to lift his hands to his head, he noticed the second thing – his hands were tied tightly behind his back. A surge of adrenaline brought him fully alert. He was on his knees in the same alleyway. Looking up quickly and shoving down the resulting wave of nausea, he saw his two opponents from before standing smugly in front of him with a third man he didn't recognize.

"What the hell?" He tried to make it to his feet but was brought back to his knees by a fist to his gut.

"Stay down, Ivan!" spat the first man. "We're gonna take care of the KGB rat inside UNCLE once and for all."

Illya fought against the panic rising in his chest. He'd been in tight situations before, but bound and at the mercy of three trained killers? Well, okay, last month in Istanbul, but at least they'd wanted information. It had given him enough time to turn the situation around, time to plan, time to escape. Right now, there was nothing stopping these men from murdering him in cold blood. The only possibility Illya could see was getting them to change their minds, to try to reason with them, to beg for his life if necessary.

"I'm not KGB, I swear, I never have been," Illya said earnestly. "I was assigned to UNCLE right out of the Navy."

"What a load of horseshit," said the second man. "You're a damned liar."

"You expect us to believe," drawled the third, "that Khrushchev would send one of you snakes here and not have you spy on us?"

"I'm telling you the truth, ask Waverly –"

"That old fool," said the first man contemptuously. "He's as blind as they come."

"Napoleon Solo, then. He can vouch for me."

That earned Illya a backhand across the face, whipping his head to one side.

"Leon's the reason we're here," said the first man with a cruel sneer.

Illya suddenly felt very cold. His chest tightened painfully. No, not again. His training kept his face neutral, but inside he was in turmoil. He hadn't realized until just then, but part of him had been expecting his new partner to come bail him out of this.

The CIA man was still talking. "Did you really think Solo wanted a stinking commie watching his back? He served with us in Korea, he's seen what you godless bastards do. He was forced to take you on as a partner by that idiot Waverly."

"And now, we're going to do our old friend a favor and get one more pinko scum off his tail." The America spy flicked open a switch blade. "Hold him."

Desperately Illya tried once more to gain his feet, but the other two agents peeled off from their ringleader and grabbed Illya by each arm, forcing him back to the ground.

"No, please – "

"And shut him up."

One of the men produced a handkerchief and pulled the taut material between the Soviet agent's teeth, tying it firmly behind his head in an effective gag. Now completely helpless, Illya could only watch as the man with the knife drew closer and closer.

"Don't worry," he said in a voice that suggested Illya should do exactly that, "I'm not gonna kill ya." He got close enough and bent down to Illya's level. "I'm just gonna make sure everyone you meet knows exactly what you are. Three little letters, right here." He tapped Illya's forehead with the knife. "K" a tap with the knife, "G" again right in the center, "B" this time the knife broke the skin drawing a trickle of blood from the young agent.

Illya tried to shake himself free, but the CIA men holding him were too strong. He tried to twist his head away from the knife, but one man grabbed a fistful of his hair and the other gripped his jaw like a vise. It would be better if they just killed him outright than suffer this humiliation. These men thought they were only taking away his career, his ability to do undercover work. In reality, they were sentencing him to death. To be branded as KGB, to be accused so publicly of betraying UNCLE's trust in its member nation of the Soviet Union would mean returning home in disgrace. Then interrogation and either a quick death by firing squad or a slow one in the gulag.

The CIA man was now only inches from the completely immobilized UNCLE agent's face. Illya's eyes blazed with defiance. He would be damned if he was going to show these assholes fear.

As he felt the cold knife press against his skin, Illya closed his eyes, bracing for the pain.

"CARL – STOP!"

The shout made the hand with the knife freeze reflexively and Illya's eyes fly open. It was followed up by the sound of footsteps approaching at a run from somewhere to Illya's left. The man with the knife had just enough time to start to turn towards the newcomer when a dark blur collided with him and sent the knife clattering across the pavement. Illya's head was suddenly free as the men on either side released him to face the new threat. The figure was straddling the ringleader and delivered a wicked right to his jaw, knocking him out cold. The figure stood and turned to the only other three men left conscious in the alley.

Napoleon Solo was angrier than Illya had ever seen him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he growled at the two men who stood flanking his bound partner.

Waves of pure relief washed through Illya. Napoleon hadn't betrayed him; Napoleon had come to help him. A knot Illya hadn't even realized he was holding in his stomach loosened. The odds were still very much stacked against them, but somehow Illya knew they were going to come out alright. His partner was here.

The man on Illya's left took one look at his unconscious co-conspirator and his face hardened into a sneer as he launched himself at his former squad-mate. The two men grappled, trading blows, seemingly equally matched.

Illya was gripped by a new fear: that his partner might suffer because of him. The man on his right, the one who'd been hiding in the shadows earlier, was taking longer to overcome his past friendship with Solo. Just as he was taking a step toward the fray, Illya rolled onto his side and kicked out with both feet at the American's legs. At the last second, the CIA man sensed the attack and deflected Illya with a kick of his own. There was an explosion of pain in Illya's ankle and he could see a feral gleam in the other's eyes. Now here was a target he had no problem attacking. Illya was trying to get back to his knees, but a kick to his chest sent him back to the ground again. He knew what was coming, but with his hands tied behind his back there wasn't much he could do to protect himself from the kicks to his mid-section. With each kick, air was forced out of his lungs and wasn't coming in fast enough through his nose. He started to see spots in his vision as his brain was starved of oxygen. He screamed into the gag as he heard and felt his ribs crack.

Suddenly the kicking stopped, leaving Illya breathless on the pavement. On the far side of the alley, the three CIA men were just starting to pick themselves off the ground. And between them and him, stood Napoleon; in his tuxedo, panting slightly from the fight, but clearly ready for more.

The ringleader, Carl apparently, stood and faced his old war buddy. He touched the cut on his mouth and looked at the blood on his fingers.

"You shouldn't have done that Leon. Why are you defending this piece of communist garbage?"

"He's my partner," answered Napoleon in a low and dangerous voice.

"Nobody blames you for that, Leon," said the man who'd just finished taking his frustrations out on Illya's torso. "Just leave him to us and you can get a real partner."

"Get the hell out of here, Ralf," growled Napoleon, "before I really get mad."

Illya had managed to get back to his knees but was trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Napoleon, their old friend, might still be able to talk some sense into the three. He didn't need Illya to remind them of his presence and their hatred right now. Illya focused on slowing his breathing, coming back from the brink of hyperventilation. But the gag forced him to breathe through his nose and his broken ribs sent a shock of pain every time he tried to take a deep breath. He felt like he was fighting a losing battle to get enough air. He fought back a flush of panic that started to prickle in his chest.

"Look, Solo," tried Carl, "you know I'm going places in the company. There's no reason my friends can't come along for the ride. Walk away right now, forget what you saw here and all this," he indicated his bruised jaw, "will be forgotten too." Carl's face hardened. "Otherwise, it might get around that Leon Solo is a commie sympathizer. I got a lot of friends in a lot of places, a lot of your contact are my contacts. Keep this up and none of 'em will so much as give you the time of day. Think about this very carefully, Solo; is this Russian really worth it?"

Illya felt a creeping sense of despair close in on him once more. What this man was threatening was serious indeed. There were still many in the US government who thought that McCarthy had had the right idea. Napoleon simply wouldn't be able to do his job if Carl made good on his threats. Illya told himself he couldn't blame Solo for not throwing his livelihood away for him. But he still felt cold and sick with fear. Illya let his head drop, not able to face Napoleon looking back at him with shame, guilt and apology in his eyes before turning away and leaving Illya to his fate.

"Actually," said Napoleon, "he's Ukranian."

Illya lifted his head, hope blossoming. Napoleon was still standing resolutely, defiantly – protectively – between him and his attackers.

"This man is my partner," Napoleon said with steel in his voice, "more than that, he's my friend. You want him? You'll have to go through me!"

Time seemed to freeze as the two men glared at each other. Finally, Carl spat on Napoleon's shoes and started backing towards the street, the other two moving away as well.

"This isn't over, Solo!"

"You're damn right it isn't," Napoleon fired back.

Illya could practically feel himself melting with relief. As the CIA men disappeared adrenaline drained from his system leaving him feeling weak and very much aware his various new injuries.

He started to slump forward bonelessly, but a gentle hand was at his shoulder, steading him. Napoleon was at his side (yet still facing the alley entrance, the tactical part of his brain noted with approval.) The ruthless fighter was gone, but Illya knew he was just beneath the surface, ready to return if needed.

"Here, let me," Napoleon said quietly, untying the cloth behind Illya's head. As the gag came away Illya took several grateful, if still shallow, breaths. His vision started to clear at last.

"Illya, I'm so sorry!" Napoleon was saying, "I had no idea about any of this I swear! I came as soon as I heard you were out here, but even then I had no idea what -," he broke off, unable to finish that thought. "Those bastards did this because of me – I'm so sorry Illya."

Napoleon had produced a pocket knife and started to cut the ropes around Illya's wrists. For the second time that night, Illya felt cold steel against his skin. But this time was different. This time Illya knew the knife was in the hands of a friend. A friend, Illya just learned, but now knew to his core, who would go to any lengths for him. Napoleon would sooner cut himself.

"It wasn't your fault, my friend," said Illya as soon as he had the breath. "You saved my life, thank you." 'And I'll never doubt you again,' he added silently.

When the ropes were cut, Illya gasped with the pain of blood suddenly returning to his hands and of joints battered in one position aching anew as they moved for the first time. It wasn't anything Illya hadn't been through before but that didn't make it any less unpleasant.

"Easy, pal, easy," soothed Napoleon as he helped Illya regain some circulation in his arms. "Where are you hurt?"

"I am fine," Illya said between gasps, "My arms are just stiff." He looked up at Napoleon, then back down to the pavement. "You didn't have to do that."

"Course I did," replied Napoleon, "You'd've done the same for me," he said simply.

'Well, yes,' thought Illya, but he'd long since stopped expecting the same in return.

"But what that Carl said," persisted Illya, "you know you're already under suspicion for working with me. If that guy is able to spread the right rumors – "

"I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. Besides, Carl's always had a fairly inflated sense of his own importance. It might come to nothing."

"But if it's not nothing – "

"My career versus your life," Napoleon said, his voice suddenly sharp, then more quietly he continued, "It wasn't a hard choice."

Illya looked at his partner, mouth slightly agape, speechless.

"Come on," Napoleon finally said, "let's get you on your feet."

Illya nodded and tried to move. "Ah," he gasped, but then tried to wave off his worried partner. "My legs are a bit stiff too. I am fine."

He almost made it to his feet when he made the mistake of putting weight on his right ankle. His leg buckled under him and the pavement suddenly rushed up at him. Instantly, Napoleon was in front of him, catching him by both elbows, gently pulling him upright.

"Yeah, I can see how fine you are," Napoleon said wryly.

Illya barely heard him as a massive wave of vertigo slammed into him. When it passed, Illya found his forehead pressing against Napoleon's shoulder and fistfuls of Napoleon's jacket sleeve in each hand.

"It's okay," Napoleon was saying, still supporting Illya's arms, "I've got you."

"So you have," Illya replied shakily.

"Well, I count a broken ankle, a concussion and don't think I didn't notice you holding your ribs as you stood up. Is there anything else that fits your peculiar definition of 'fine'?"

"I'm not sure yet," Illya said, still getting used to verticality. "I'll give you a full report in the morning."

"No, medical will give _you_ a full report right now."

"No, please, I'm fine, I just need to get a cab home."

"Illya, take a look at yourself! You need a doctor; you could have internal bleeding." Anger briefly flared within Napoleon at the memory of Ralf kicking his helpless friend. He shoved it down. Anger had already done its part. It wasn't what Illya needed now.

That foolish Russian (or whatever) was actually trying to limp away toward the street, seemingly intent on finding a cab home.

Napoleon could recognize when a cause was lost.

"Alright," he said, ducking under Illya's arm and shouldering much of his weight, "No medical. But I'm staying at your place tonight. Tomorrow we can figure out how to handle those CIA assholes."

'We.' Illya let the word roll around his head as he let his partner guide him away from the alley. He was part of a we. He couldn't remember the last time he was truly part of a we. A feeling of warmth and peace washed over him. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel the need to watch his back. He could put all of his energy into keeping the pain at bay and giving Napoleon some token assistance with locomotion. For right now he didn't have to constantly count the exits and keep track of everyone's hands.

They reached a cab and Napoleon helped Illya in. Where had the cab come from? Had it been waiting for them or did Napoleon have to flag it down? Was the driver paying them too much attention? Too little? Illya had no idea the answers to any of those questions, but he trusted that Napoleon did. It was a strange feeling, trusting someone enough to let them take charge of his safety, but Illya thought he could get used to it.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Napoleon's voice cut into his fuzzy thoughts, "If you bleed to death on me, I'm going to kill you."

For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile tugged at the corner of Illya's mouth. "I'll try not to trouble you, Leon."


End file.
